


Into the Woods

by Goodforthesoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, F/M, Horny Sansa Stark, Little Red Riding Hood Vibes, Mentioned by Not Explicit, Minor Violence, Motorcycles, Past Abuse, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodforthesoul/pseuds/Goodforthesoul
Summary: All her life, Sansa Stark had been told to be a good girl, to stay on the path that life had laid out before her. When she was little, her mother would tell her to behave, to act like a lady, to be a good little girl. When he left for business, her father would kiss her cheek and ask her to be a good girl for her mother, who always had her hands full with Sansa’s brothers and Arya. Uncle Petyr had told her to be a good girl and not tell her parents about the secret games he played with her. Joffrey had warned her to be a good girl and not make him angry.And Sansa does what’s expected of her. She earns good marks in secondary, goes to university, gets her degree, meets Joffrey, falls in love. Once she graduates, she convinces herself that marriage is her next step, and when Joff proposes, she says ‘yes.’ But after he breaks her arm, pushing her down the stairs of the house they rent, she is more afraid to stay on the path than to leave it.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 179





	Into the Woods

All her life, Sansa Stark had been told to be a good girl, to stay on the path that life had laid out before her. When she was little, her mother would tell her to behave, to act like a lady, to be a good little girl. When he left for business, her father would kiss her cheek and ask her to be a good girl for her mother, who always had her hands full with Sansa’s brothers and Arya. Uncle Petyr had told her to be a good girl and not tell her parents about the secret games he played with her. Joffrey had warned her to be a good girl and not make him angry.

And Sansa does what’s expected of her. She earns good marks in secondary, goes to university, gets her degree, meets Joffrey, falls in love. Once she graduates, she convinces herself that marriage is her next step, and when Joff proposes, she says ‘yes.’ But after he breaks her arm, pushing her down the stairs of the house they rent, she is more afraid to stay on the path than to leave it. 

She returns home and she doesn’t tell her parents what had happened and they never press too hard for details, which makes her wonder if they had suspected all along. 

She also doesn’t tell them when she goes to Castle Black, the diviest dive bar in Molestown. She grew up with whispers that it was the sort of place for hard men and loose women. Certainly not where a good girl ought to go, and for that reason, she’s decided she has to. Because she’s learned being a good little girl isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. 

The bar is dark, dirty, and dusty and upon entering it, Sansa realizes that she has made a huge mistake but she’s too embarrassed to admit it and too stubborn to leave. She walks to the bar and daintily sits down on one of the stools, trying not to make eye contact with any of the patrons, rough-looking men with lean faces who are watching her with hard, hungry eyes as they nurse their pints. She orders a beer that is delivered to her in a glass that she is sure was once clean but those days are a distant memory. Still, uncertain of what else to do, she takes a sip and wonders how long she will need to endure this place before she can slink back to the safety and surety of her parents’ house and the life she has laid out before her. 

“Hello, Red. This seat taken?” 

It takes her a moment to realize that he is talking to her, and she dumbly shakes her head, because the seat is not taken, though she would like it to stay that way. It doesn’t matter, though, because the man is sliding onto the bar stool even before she answers. He grins at her as he holds out his hand to shake hers, and his smile is quick and easy, impish even, though it doesn’t quite dispel the cold from, doesn’t quite kindle light into, his pale blue eyes.

“Ramsay Bolton,” he says. 

“Sansa Stark,” she replies, as she puts her hand in his, which feels too much like a trap, a doe stepping into a snare, a bird flying into a cage. 

“Sansa Stark,” he says, and the sound of her name in mouth feels like a violation, a cord closing around her leg, the door of a cage slamming shut. “What is a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?” He leans in, his breath hot against her cheek. “Or perhaps you are not such a good girl after all?” 

“I have to get going actually.” This has been a terrible mistake, a failed experiment that she will not attempt to replicate. She does not belong here, in a place like this. It was stupid to come, and now all she wants to do is leave. 

He grabs her arm. Not tight enough to hurt, but it prevents her from moving without making a scene, a sprung trap. “Oh, but you’ve only just got here and you haven’t even finished your beer.” He is still smiling that easy smile and looking at her with those flat, dead eyes. “We were only just getting to know each other. And,” he says with deliberate slowness, “I have every intention of getting to know you quite well.” She can feel his gaze on her body, and she really wished that she hadn’t been quite so daring, so rebellious, when she had dressed to leave the house. 

“The time…” she says. “I have to go. My boyfriend... I am supposed to meet him.” She stumbles into the lie, unconvincing, even to her ears, definitely to his as he lets out a howling laugh.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” He yanks on her arm, his grip painful now. “How stupid do you think I am?” 

“It’s the truth,” she says, desperate and panicked. She has made him angry, and that’s a mistake. Joff taught her that. “Let me go. My boyfriend….” she trails off as she feels a pair of hands on her shoulders. 

“This guy bothering you, babe?” says a voice, low and gruff, but the hands are light and gentle. 

Ramsay’s eyes widen in disbelief, and he releases her arm. “The Wolf? The Wolf is your fucking boyfriend?” He leers at her. “Not a nice girl at all.” 

“Yeah,” she gulps. She angels her head upwards but cannot see the man behind her. “I told him I had to meet you, but he wouldn’t let me.” She rubs her bicep, where his fingers have left painful red marks.

“You put your hands on her?” The sound is a growl, low and quiet, but full of menace, and Sansa no longer wonders why they call this man a wolf. 

The man, the wolf, does not give Ramsay time to respond. His hands lift from her shoulders and he punches Ramsey in the noise, hard, sending him reeling from the barstool. His movements are quick and efficient. The violence practiced, easy, natural

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thinks, as she watches the man move toward Ramsay, his broad shoulders, his easy grace. He is on the other man in seconds, brutal fists pounding, connecting wetly with blood and spit and bone again and again and again. No one in the bar seems to notice, at least not that they are willing to acknowledge, but Sansa stands, watching the beastly beating, the feral savagery of the man. He is in the midst of throwing another punch, when he looks up and sees her watching. He pauses, panting, and she mouths “Jon?” half a hope, half a question. He does not answer, but holds her gaze, and she sees a wildness in his eyes that she does not remember from all the afternoons he would come over to do homework or play video games with Robb, all the nights he would join their family for dinner, joking with her father, teasing Arya, politely thanking her mother for having him. 

The man before her now bears little resemblance to the gawky teenage boy who had followed Robb around like a puppy. Until Robb had gone to college, and Jon Snow could not follow him there. Sansa remembered Arya mentioning something about Jon getting a job with Jorah Mormont as a mechanic in Molestown, and then vague rumors about him joining the Wildlings, a motorcycle club known for raising hell and not always operating on the right side of the law. 

Jon has changed. Physical changes, of course. The dark curls that used to fall in his face and hide his eyes are pulled back, and he has grown a beard. His chest is broader, arms well-muscled, a scar on his cheek. But the changes go deeper than that. He had been a sweet boy. She isn’t sure what he was now, and she wonders what he must have been through to turn him into this savage wolf.

“Sansa,” he breaths, before turning back to Ramsay. “I thought I had made it clear that you and your Flayed Men are not welcome in this establishment. This is your final warning.” He says, his voice hard, giving the other man’s body a quick, ruthless kick, before walking away. 

He moves toward her. “What the hell are you doing here?” he says gruffly, before softening his tone. “You… you shouldn’t be in a place like this.” 

“Why not?”

“Because bad men,” Jon says, gesturing to Ramsay, who is, with the help of two of his flunkies, getting off the floor and hobbling toward the door, “come to places like this.”

“Men like you?” she snaps, an attempt to distance him, to protect herself, that she regrets almost immediately. 

His smile is ironic, and perhaps a bit defensive, a touch sad. “Yeah. Men like me.” He winces, as he clenches his hand, and Sansa notices he is bleeding, his knuckles split. 

“You’re hurt,” she says, her tone conciliatory.

“It’s fine.” 

“You should clean it up.” 

Before he can answer her, a large man with ginger hair, a wild beard, and fierce eyes approaches them. “What happened? Thought I you were going to get more ale. Not start another war with that bastard Bolton.”

“He touched her. She didn’t like it. Neither did I.” 

“You and your damn chivalry.” The man scoffs before turning to Sansa, his eyes lingering on her hair. “Kissed by fire,” he laughs. “You certainly have a type, Little Wolf. A tussle like that gets a man’s blood up, you should take her home.”

Jon looks to Sansa, and she felt the color rise in her cheeks. “He’s right, you know. Robb would never forgive me if he knew I let his little sister stay in a place like this. Let me take you back to Winterfell.” But there was something in the way that he looks at her that contradicts his words. Something predatory, hungry. He wants me, she realizes. She knows she should be shaken, terrified, by the brutal and violent depths roiling within this stranger who resembles the boy she once knew. But the way he is gazing at her, it’s making her feel something, and it isn’t afraid, and that’s what’s got her nervous now. Because it would be easier to be scared of him than this. 

“That tiny pecker of yours fall off, Snow?” The other man says, as he heads to the bar to get his pitcher of beer, shaking his head and laughing. 

Sansa’s eyes meet his. “Let’s get out of here. You’re right. I shouldn’t be here. Take me home, Jon.”

“To Winterfell, it is then.”

“Not my home. Yours.”

He looks at her quizzically for a second, before nodding, and she wonders what he will expect of her when they get to his place, wonders what she wants to give. 

She follows him out of the bar, surprised by the chill in the night air. “Where are you parked?” he asks. 

“I’m not. I mean I Ubered. Don’t have a car.” In King’s Landing there had been no need for one. Public transportation was good, and she had use of the Lannister’s town car. Joff had liked that, that she was dependent on him, that the driver, a man he called The Hound, would report back to him about where she had been and who she had seen. And now that she is home, she borrows her mom’s or dad’s if she needs to go shopping or get out of the house. But not to go to a place like this. 

“You ever been on a bike before?” he asks, as he leads her to where his is parked. 

“No,” she says, and he hands her a helmet, that is a touch too big for her. “Where’s yours?” she asks. 

“You’re wearing it.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he cut her off as he gets onto the bike. “It’s fine. We’re only going a few miles. Now get behind me and hold on.”

Sansa didn’t think that she would much like the idea of being on a motorcycle, the wind whipping at her, the vulnerability, the danger, it entailed. But there is something comfortable about being pressed against the hard muscles of his back, her arms around his taut stomach, breathing in his scent of pine, leather, wood smoke, and fresh snow. She feels something shiver through her at the closeness of their bodies, the memory of the way he looked at her in the bar, unsure of how to feel about the way her body is responding to his warmth with its own heat, low in her core. 

“This is it,” he says, leading her into a small one-room cottage, which is dingy, but clean. He smiles, and there is something sheepish about it, but he is a wolf now, she reminds herself, no matter what clothes he put on. “You want a beer or something?”

“A beer would be great,” she says, if only to stall while she figures out what she is doing here, so far the path her life was supposed to be on. A path which she is pretty sure does not lead anywhere near this man.

He hands her a bottle, and her fingers brush against his, and in that moment, she is sure, as sure as she had ever been about anything in her life that she wants him. And she is sure that for once in her life, she is going to do what she wants, regardless of whether or not it is what a good little girl would do. Her gaze met his, and she doesn’t know what he sees in hers, but his eyes darken, mirroring the hunger that she feels roiling within her, prowling and clawing in its desperate want, need, of him.

She bids farewell to the clear and narrow path and plunges into the woods and kisses him. At first, his lips are so soft against hers that it surprises her, but then he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss, his mouth and tongue hard and hungry against hers.

He pulls away, pressing his forehead against hers. “If you kiss me again,” he says, some of the feral wildness she had seen in him before blazing through his eyes. “I don’t know that I am going to be able to stop myself. I may have to devour you.” 

“I think I want to be devoured,” she says, pulling him to her and pressing her mouth to his. 

They make their way to the bed, leaving their shirts and her bra on the floor behind them. He pushes her onto the mattress, pulling off her jeans and flinging them over his shoulder, and she pulls him on top of her, feeling his hardness through his jeans. He is kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts, and she is fumbling with his belt, his button, his zipper, pushing his pants down, moaning as his tongue circles her nipple. His mouth is on her breast and his hand is between her legs, rubbing roughly against the thin fabric of her panties, then pushing them aside, to slip his finger into her slick cunt. She rocks against his hand, her own pushing down his boxes, fingers wrapping around the shaft of his cock, moving in rhythm with his hand inside her. 

“I want you on all fours,” he says. “Would you like that?” 

And she nods, moaning “yes,” as she writhes in pleasure, which curls from the tip of his finger and twists through her. 

She pulls off her underwear, and crawls onto her hands and knees. She is prepared for, eager for, the feel of his cock inside her, filling her, satiating this burning need between her legs, but instead, he says, “I’m going to eat you first,” his voice thick with desire. His tongue glides over the length of her cunt, teasing her clit before slipping inside of her. His mouth is on her, his nose pressed against her ass, and it feels dirty and wrong and she wanted him to never stop doing whatever it is he is doing with his lips and tongue and were those teeth? But it doesn’t matter as wave after wave of pleasure pounds through her body, radiating from her core, cresting and washing over her, her hips bucking, legs shaking, muscles contracting then releasing as a feeling of contentment, of bliss, settles over her. 

He continues to tease her with his lips and his tongue, until she is mewing and quivering and begging for him. He stops only long enough to pull a condom from the draw of his nightstand, and then he is pushing inside of her, moving with aching slowness as he slides the length of his cock inside her and then out again. He keeps one hand on her hips as the other slides between her legs to brush against her clit. She pushes against him, wanting him harder, faster, deeper inside of her. He makes a sound half way between a groan and a growl as he quickens his pace, his fingers pressing harder against her clit, bringing them both to a shuddering climax that causes them to collapse together onto the bed. 

Afterward, she traces the wolf’s head he has tattooed on his chest. “Why do they all call you ‘wolf’?”

He shrugs. “That’s just what they call me.” 

“As in ‘big bad?’” 

“Not quite.” He exhales before saying, “There’s a motorcycle brand, Wolf. Known for being, well, uh, smaller than a standard bike. That big guy, Tormund, he started calling me that. It caught on. Unfortunately.” 

She laughs. “That is…” she trailed off. “Honestly not at all the origin story I was expecting.” 

His smile widens, and he runs his hand over his head. “I really need to come up with something better.” 

“We’ll think of one.” She says, threading her fingers through his, and then stops. Because whatever just happened, whatever she did tonight, she is not sure that it can, that it will, ever happen again. 

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, as though reading her mind, his hand squeezing hers. “Maybe take you out on a proper date.”

“I’d like that,” she says. Because she would. It is not the path that she is supposed to be on, not the one a good little girl might follow, but she likes the idea of having him at her side as she forges her own way.


End file.
